


maps

by wetbreadstick



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: M/M, established relationship kinda, nsfw kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3466139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetbreadstick/pseuds/wetbreadstick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saving the world should have meant anything other than saying goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maps

“I’m leaving.” Inigo says, voice unusually loud from behind Gerome.

For a moment, Gerome pays him no heed, continuing to organize his things and pack them away. The rustling of clothes and leather is all that’s audible in the dusty air before Gerome finally straightens up and turns, hands falling to his sides.

“With Brady?” he asks, expression betraying nothing.

Inigo shifts in place, gaze aimed pointedly at his boots. “Yeah.” He answers lamely, scuffing the earth with his heel. “We’re gonna hit the road tomorrow. Head north to Regna Ferox.”

Gerome watches him move, uncomfortable in his actions—the way his arms cross and uncross, the way he moves his weight from foot to foot, the way his eyes flick up to Gerome and then back down.

“Alright.” Gerome says, already moving back to his half-full pack. Without further ado, his hands continue their previous motions, vulneraries and clothes disappearing neatly into the bag.

“That’s—that’s it? _Alright_?” Inigo flounders for words, seemingly affronted. “I’m leaving, and all you can say is _alright_?”

Gerome heaves a tiny sigh through his nose, glaring down at the rumpled clothes under his fingers. It seems like this particular chore would have to wait.

“What would you have me say?” he says, once again turning back to Inigo. He folds his arms over his chest, a brow lofting as Inigo’s chest puffs up with indignation.

“I don’t know—‘goodbye? Don’t go? Come with me instead?’” Inigo blusters, hands gesticulating vaguely through the air.

Gerome remains silent.

Inigo makes an audible noise of frustration, a hand running through his hair. “Nothing? Not even goodbye?” he tries, voice weak.

Inigo stares him down, searching for the dark eyes he knows behind the mask, before exhaling long and slow. “Where will you go, Gerome?” he finally says. His voice sounds tired. Defeated, even, eyes lowered.

“Wyvern Valley.” Gerome answers, finally breaking his silence. “I’m taking Minerva there. To be with her own kind.” He watches Inigo steadily, even as his face flickers through a myriad of unsure expressions.

“By yourself?” Inigo ventures.

“Yes.”

Inigo looks like he wants to say something, teeth worrying his bottom lip. Distractedly, he fiddles with a loose thread hanging from his sleeve, eyes flicking down to the floor in an attempt to avoid Gerome’s gaze.

Saving the world should have meant anything other than saying goodbye. Unfortunately, fate had other plans for the both of them, and neither could be swayed.

“Okay.” Inigo says quietly. “Okay.” Again. Louder. More sure. Inigo squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, and offers Gerome a brave, dazzling smile. “Bye, Gerome.”

With that, he turns on his heel, pushing aside the flaps of the tent.

“Inigo.” Gerome says suddenly, and Inigo pauses, fingers curling into the rough canvas. “Goodbye.”

Within the span of a heartbeat, Inigo turns back to him, jaw set and brows furrowed. Gerome barely has time to blink before Inigo crosses the scant distance between them, fists a hand into his hair and kisses him, fast and angry.

“You’re a jerk,” Inigo manages in between kisses, pressing close when Gerome’s hands automatically come down to his hips. Rough fingers dig into the skin there, and Gerome exhales sharply when Inigo’s teeth catch at his lips. “You won’t even—“ Inigo pauses, breath stuttering at the slide of Gerome’s tongue against his lips and then into his mouth—“—won’t even say—“ Gerome kisses him hot and fierce, a hand sliding up his spine, grabbing his shirt and hauling him closer. “—say goodbye--?”

His hands are everywhere: his hair, his biceps, hips, waist, as if unsure what part of him he wants to touch more.

“Stop talking.” Gerome mutters—and he does, hand sliding from Gerome’s hair down to his jaw, tilting his head and kissing him dizzy, dizzy, and he’s lightheaded with it all, so he walks Inigo back until his knees hit the edge of Gerome’s cot, sitting back onto it with an audible thud.

Gerome straddles his hips, breaking the kiss even as Inigo’s breathing increases, heavy in the thick air. He slides his palm along Inigo’s cheek, fingers shifting into his hair, and Inigo blinks up at him, lips parted before leaning up, mouth finding his exposed throat and sucking a mark into his skin.

He’s used to this—this, Gerome knows. He knows the heat of Inigo’s skin under his shirt, the wet slide of his mouth, the way he gasps out Gerome’s name when he comes. This is all familiar. Gerome knows this.

He does not know tender goodbyes.

This is easier.

Gerome tilts his head back, a pleased noise rumbling in his throat as Inigo’s hands find their way under the hem of his shirt. He pauses, pulling back to reach down and tug the shirt off, mask catching in the fabric and falling to the ground along with the shirt.

Immediately, Inigo takes advantage of this, kissing the dip at the base of his throat, then his collarbone, down the scarred and muscled plane of his chest and abdomen. Gerome’s fingers grip Inigo’s hair even as Inigo’s hands trace down the thick scars that mar his skin—the short line from a well-aimed arrow, the thick rope of white flesh from a sword wound, the still-pink healing flesh lining his arm and chest from an intercepted tomahawk. Gerome groans from behind clenched teeth, hips bearing down as Inigo’s lips brush just above his navel.

Inigo grins up at him, teeth against his stomach, eyelashes thick and dark. With a noise of derision, Gerome pushes him back against the blankets, and Inigo somehow finds it in him to laugh.

Gerome bends down and kisses him—Inigo stops laughing then, hands coming up to Gerome’s shoulders. The kiss is more tongue than teeth, this time, and he moans thickly into Gerome’s mouth as Gerome shifts a knee to nestle between his thighs.

And then Gerome grinds down against him, slow and dirty, hands pulling his hips upwards so they’re slotted firmly together. Inigo makes an unabashed noise deep in his throat, rolling his hips up to meet Gerome’s—and he’s clearly hard (they both are, now), the outline of his dick firm and visible through his pants.

They’re not so much kissing as panting against each other, breaths hot, familiar quick-burn pleasure rising fast in Gerome’s abdomen.

“Fuck—c’mon, Gerome, I want—“ Inigo finally speaks, voice rough with want, aching with the desire for Gerome to just _touch_ him—

\--but, _gods_ , Gerome wants to do so much more than touch him. He kisses Inigo again and Inigo arches up against him, a leg hooking around Gerome’s calf, hands wild in his hair as he gasps into Gerome’s mouth—and that’s it, Gerome’s hands fly to the tie on Inigo’s pants; he wants to fuck him until he can’t walk, until his throat is hoarse with Gerome’s name, until he won’t leave him the next morning----

“Inigo?”

The rough voice sounds from outside the tent, a familiar annoyed growl, and Gerome and Inigo break apart immediately. There’s a moment of silence as they stare at each other, flushed and panting, before Inigo clears his throat to reply.

“Yes, Brady?” he answers, light as he tries to force the breathiness from his voice.

“We gotta start gettin’ our shit together. C’mon.” Brady answers. The sound of fading footfalls heralds his departure, and then there’s quiet once again.

The moment is over. Gerome stands quickly, grabbing his shirt and mask and sliding them back on. Inigo watches him, before slowly shifting off the cot, standing to straighten out his clothing.

There’s a sudden heaviness between them, silence thick enough to be choking, and Inigo clears his throat.

“I guess I’d better go.” He says, awkward even as he interrupts the silence.

“I suppose so.” Gerome answers, voice smooth and unruffled once more.

They stare at each other, and Gerome’s lips twitch, heart staccato against his ribs, like maybe there’s something he wants to say— _please stay, please don’t go yet_ —

“Bye, Gerome.” Inigo smiles wryly, a bit sad—and then he’s gone in a swish of cologne and fabric, leaving Gerome alone.

He stands for several moments, listening to Inigo’s footsteps, to the distant sound of Brady’s raucous voice. To Inigo’s response, and then their laughter, the togetherness that betrays their friendship.

“Goodbye.” Gerome says to the empty tent, fingers curling into a fist.

Outside, the voices fade, and Gerome stands in silence once more.

**Author's Note:**

> laugh track.mp3
> 
> these two have ruined me


End file.
